As tradition dictates, it cost twice as much and took twice the time. “A nice little contract”, had planned Mr. S (for Sauveur and SOS), the carpenter-carpenter with whom I became friends like pigs. That was last January, and since then I’ve lost count of the coffees served on the “construction site” and the chatter against the backdrop of weather forecasts.
Mr. S only showed up on rainy days, and very early in the morning. He saw me asleep, in my pajamas, cleansed, stressed, on vacation, dressed like a hillbilly with a brush of sealant in my hand. He came back anyway.
Since then, I have had time to rejoice, to exasperate myself, to hope, to depress solidly and to impoverish myself. Pushed to the limit, I thought of selling everything. In hindsight, no, I didn’t really need it. The word “need” should be defined in Maslow’s pyramid. And no, I didn’t “really” have the means either.
This probably sums up 80% of renovation projects in Quebec, boosted by multiple emissions that make rare woods rhyme (there are no more pine trees, anyway) and designer fantasies, Renovate to rent (hello Airbnb!), Sell or renovate, Hugo’s renovations, One step at a time (with Marilou), and so on. Let’s tap into the line of credit to fix our roofs.
I am the Donalda of passion dust : not a circle, but well of the idea. I would like to have a camera on my heels and BMR as a sponsor. Or inspire enough pity (an inoperable tumor, five children and prayer at the table before meals) for a team of 250 workers to come to my house, as in Renovation operation, to settle everything in 12 hours. Reality TV is not always realistic. You have to create empathy, be already famous or not live on the site to appreciate the renovations, the mess, the waste, the schedules, the invasion, the total loss of control over everything, including the budget. .
let’s ruin ourselves
In short, while inspecting the veranda floor, one eye wide open and the other half-discouraged, Mr. S, who had paraded all the saints while stripping said floor, hastened to reassure me: “It’s rustic, Josee. We are in the countryside here. ” He is right. We do buy our pre-ripped jeans. No one is going to notice the blemishes except a compulsive anal-retentive, and I don’t date any more. I too am getting rustic anyway.
On the other hand, the traces of sparks left on the wall by the electrician, that, we see them more. Rustic, we said. We almost roasted the cat at 220 V in a fireworks display. My B’s pants are burnt. Mr. S came to save us during his vacation. I was hot.
Monsieur V (for Volt) has not finished with the little madam who files a complaint with her corporation (I hope they are more efficient than the College of Physicians) and takes her to small claims. You should not underestimate the ladieseven when they don’t seem to have 110V on all floors.
Sometimes ruins lead you to ruin. Especially in times of stock market slump, material price inflation and labor shortages. It cost 22.6% more than a year ago, in June, to build. The CCQ, the Commission de la construction du Québec, estimated before the pandemic that there would be a shortage of 13,000 workers per year until 2025.
My lovely real estate broker changed the column numbers: “It’s not an expense, it’s an investment, Josée! “Here I am reassured.
I adhere to the rustic fashion, which will inevitably be the norm in many areas. Error being human and experience a secondary asset, fatigue helping (it is not uncommon to work 70 hours a week in construction, not to mention the sometimes non-existent vacations), we will have to hope for the best and accommodate ourselves rest. A plumber has already hung up on me: Count yourself lucky to have water! »
One day we will shower in the rain. And in winter, the Scandinavian bath will become a revived practice. My grandfather used to roll in the snow to kill lice in construction sites in the Gaspé without running water or electricity, in the last century. He later became a plumber.
The lady will be happy
I must have heard this litany dozens of times: “You’ll be happy when it’s over. » Duh !
The adorable actress Sarah-Jeanne Labrosse (passion dust) claims that, like childbirth, you forget everything afterwards. Nenon. I haven’t forgotten anything, neither the emergency caesarean, nor the aftermath, nor my anxiety attacks last winter. As one psychiatrist explained to me: “Renovations are underestimated in terms of their impact on mental health. In studies, it is clearly demonstrated that they are a source of burnout and divorces. » I warned Mr. S (who has already called me « my beautiful little princess” one morning, at 7:10 a.m.):
“If my relationship breaks down, I’ll marry you. That way, I’ll be sure to have an all-terrain handyman on hand.
‘Don’t think that, Josée. At home, I’m the badly shod shoemaker. I do not have the time… “
The poor. Plus, he cooks. I’ve always had a thing for manual guys.
The writer Jean-Paul Dubois, who made me laugh with his excellent novel You’re kidding, Mr. Tanner, describes the renovations of an old country shack under the assault of all the trades. He develops a love-hate type attachment towards them that he calls “the noose syndrome”. If you resist, the rope strangles you; better to follow.
Of this long and exhausting battle, I keep a terrifying memory and still devote a blind, tenacious and ferocious hatred to some of my executioners.
“Tied up, in the skin of a hostage, as the days go by, you decline, you decline, but as soon as your stranglers loosen their grip a little, as soon as the construction site resumes, temporarily, a normal course, you feel a certain sympathy towards your torturers. They seem to you more human, more competent, you even manage to find certain qualities in them. »
When Monsieur S gave me back my keys, I had a twinge. I suffer from Stockholm Syndrome.
“Keep them,” I suggested. ” We never know. An emergency… “
He smiled. It’s crazy, BDSM: you pay and you want more.